


Folly à Deux

by tsundbae



Series: Follyamory [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fred Weasley Lives, Luna Lovegood/Rolf Scamander - Freeform, Past Relationship(s), Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Reconciliation, Romance, Weddings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-09
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:14:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22180873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsundbae/pseuds/tsundbae
Summary: “How have you been? How’s George?” she asked.It was a guess. He just seemed like Fred. Whatever that meant.Something in his face flickered. Maybe her guess was wrong and he found it humorous that she tried anyway. Or maybe she was right and he was impressed. She knew he wouldn’t let her know either way.
Relationships: George Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Follyamory [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596673
Comments: 31
Kudos: 429
Collections: im still reading





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year everyone!
> 
> This takes place eight years after the last story, with our protagonist reconciling with the twins at a wedding. While I have each chapter finished, I am slow to edit. (Damn perfectionist tendencies!!) But I hope to have the rest uploaded very soon. As an FYI the rating will change to Mature, and tags will be updated as each chapter is posted. Unlike the first work, this one has a proper OC. 
> 
> This title is ALSO a play on words! Aren't I so clever 😎
> 
> And of course, thank you so much for sharing your time with my stories -- I'm having so much fun getting back into writing and your comments and feedback mean so much to me.

Beatrice liked George Weasley. Well, loved him, but only if he had been the one to say it first.

George Weasley was passionate and generous. His ferocious humor and delightful spontaneity sparked an appreciation for life and all that entailed. He was intuitive. Witty. Not to mention 6 feet of sublimely toned muscle and boyish charm. 

_His brother, on the other hand_. 

Her feelings for Fred Weasley wavered between enthusiastic appreciation and seething aggravation. As was typical for how the twins conducted most of their comings and goings -- very much all or nothing. While, of course, the twins shared many parts of their lives, from clothes and a bedroom, to fears and memories, it would be naive to think their personalities were identical. For the exact reasons Beatrice had loved how George wasn’t like Fred, she had been annoyed in the ways that Fred wasn’t like George. 

However, that should not be mistaken for dislike. Bea had grown to Fred as one would expect when she had practically seen him as much as she did her own boyfriend. The twins were a sort of package deal and she knew that. The Weasleys loved voraciously and while she and George had a wonderful relationship, she wouldn’t think to compare it to that of him and his family. Regardless, Beatrice cared for Fred deeply and loved him as he was.

It was late April when Beatrice broke up with George. 

He had been pulling away for weeks, throwing himself into his projects with Fred. Working on their mail order business, redesigning and improving their snackboxes, alongside overall new product development. She didn’t think she was a clingy girlfriend. Bea admittedly wasn’t particularly bothered when he was busy, as she was just as dedicated to studying for the NEWTs that would come in May. 

And while they did bicker here and there about how she thought he should be spending more time studying for his NEWTs, she didn’t _really_ expect to convince him. The Weasley twins were forging their own path, a NEWT-less path. They had talked about opening a joke shop since before she had even met them. 

It was the first day back following their Easter Holiday. After dinner they sat together in the Ravenclaw common room. He played with his cuticles as they found themselves discussing how he felt about Hogwarts, his future, Fred's future. 

The sudden feeling of her heart sinking into her stomach made her ears ring and her palms sweat. She was looking at George Weasley for the first time in months. She knew the boys were making a notable amount of money from selling their inventions. But she sat across from him as he went on about opening a storefront, start-up loans, touring rentals. George was on the precipice of something she hadn’t even noticed, or really even understood. 

She had been neglecting this important part of his life. Besides casually asking how sales were, or some off-comment about how she had seen one of their products being used in class, it wasn’t something she had ever taken part in. She hadn’t been encouraging him or offering feedback, anything that a good girlfriend should have been doing. Anything besides spending every waking moment alone in the library studying for her NEWTs. 

The guilt was immeasurable. Yet worse was the realization that maybe they were on two different paths. She didn’t doubt they’d open a joke shop. But Beatrice had put in her seven years at Hogwarts. Why should she have to make her education second priority because her boyfriend wanted to throw himself to the unpredictable tempest that would be starting a business.

And while he didn't seem hesitant towards the idea of etching a place for Bea in that future, it still left her reeling. It would be very much that -- an etching. Not organic and inherently integral. Furthermore, George didn't really fit nicely in her future either. While she wasn't entirely sure of all the prospects, she did know it didn't entail a joke shop in the middle of London. 

Not only did it not feel right, it felt _wrong_. 

Their breakup was more or less amicable. An expected yet healthy amount of tears and dramatic sighs from both. They wished nothing but prosperity and happiness for each other, but acknowledged they were on diverging paths, no longer adequately suited to provide each other the right kind of support.

The next evening the school was alight with the news that the Weasley twins had flown off into the sunset. While nobody could pretend to fully understand the thought process of the twins, she couldn’t help but wonder if George would’ve been inclined to stay if they were still together, or if their departure was planned in advance, and would he have told her about it if it was. Or if he would have broken up with her if she hadn’t. 

In lieu of mulling over questions she'd never have answers to she studied painstakingly, to the point of recklessness, preparing for her NEWTs -- which she fortunately passed with all Outstandings. 

It wasn’t until that summer where she let herself cry. Really, properly, Post-Breakup cry. A long balmy night in June where she crumpled underneath an ash tree in the garden and cried big fat tears. Tears over the career path she had so studiously spent years aligning that wasn’t at all what she’d hoped. Tears over the Ministry announcing the return of Voldemort. 

Tears over how she desperately missed one particular cheeky redhead and how he’d have effortlessly been able to crack a joke and split her sides.


	2. The Invitation

Luna Lovegood was lovely. A sweet girl. Good intentions. 

It was a shame her school mates had taken to calling her “Loony” for periods of her childhood, Beatrice always thought it was undeserved. Ravenclaws just had a certain eccentricism that other Houses had a hard time accepting. The thirst for knowledge came with the burden of just that. The curse of understanding. It was obvious to anyone that knew Luna that she didn’t mind the nickname, nor the odd looks and cheap jabs -- but it was still a shame. 

The wedding invitation was a surprise. Delightful, but unexpected. 

Bea had met with Luna twice after the war. Once in Muggle London, accidentally. It was brief but dazzling, she was just as enthralled with the younger Ravenclaw as ever. Beatrice insisted Luna and Rolf, who was only her boyfriend then, come to hers for dinner. She played the role of a proper host and made roast beef and Yorkshire puddings, frangipane tart, even used the nice china. Rolf was a respectable man. Peculiar, but who’d expect anything less. 

The dinner was pleasant, most of which spent recalling giggly memories of Hogwarts and adolescence which left Bea dewy-eyed and warm-chested. She wasn’t offended at the length of time that had passed since that last meeting up to the wedding. Life was fickle, time even more so.

  
  


\-- --

  
  


The massive crooked purple shop startled her, but not really. 

She knew the Weasley’s opened a joke shop. 

While possible that the thought could slip one’s mind, forgotten amongst the hustle and bustle of running errands -- she couldn’t _really_ forget that the twins had opened a shop. Instead, Beatrice had almost convinced herself that the shop simply wouldn’t be there. The corner of Number Ninety-Three Diagon Alley would just be … nothing. An abandoned lot, or a building boarded up. Not as if the twins went out of business, but that they hadn’t actually ever been there at all. 

The jab in her ribs was hard to place. A vague wistfulness, or a soured nostalgia. Staring at the physical manifestation of growing apart, how time has filled the space between one and another and wedged until there’s nothing _but_ space. She stood outside the shop for longer than she should have, before continuing down Diagon Alley. 

Leaving Madam Malkin's empty-handed was a waste of time, but as she drifted through the shop with glassy eyes and a tight chest, she had to admit that she was succumbing to the wave of self pity. Dragging her feet around mannequins, half-heartedly scanning over robe racks -- she couldn’t conjure the energy to buy decent dress robes when she was borderline brooding. It would have been exhausting enough when she was in a fair mood. 

It wasn’t that she was unhappy with her life. She didn’t hate her job. She held a managerial position at the Institute of Alchemical Studies; while the whinging old alchemists left something to be desired in terms of colleagues, the pay was good. But she didn’t like to be reminded of what she’s had to trade for good pay. 

She liked to think if she had a better job she’d have a cheerier disposition. Maybe she’d have an easier time talking to wizards at pubs if she wasn’t scowling over her mulled mead after a crummy day. Maybe she’d be a business owner if the determination and exhilaration for life she’d once had hadn’t been beat out of her. Maybe she’d have a two-story building full of smiles and laughing children. Not that she _wanted_ a two-story building full of children. But it seemed more interesting than transcribing elixir formulations.

Beatrice really shouldn’t have backtracked through Diagon Alley, and she _really_ shouldn’t have gone inside Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. 

Staring through the big gaudy orange windows couldn’t even compare to the inside of the shop, it was packed with customers. She was swept to the side as the crowd pushed and pulsed. Shelves towered with boxes and jars and packets, contraptions whizzed and flashed, models chirped and shrieked, seemingly everywhere she looked was met with colors and patterns that made her head spin. 

Wading through, her eyes darted from floor to ceiling, she was in awe of what the twins had accomplished. It chuffed her to see packaging and posters she recognized from when they were still working out of their dormitory. The Skiving Snackboxes had a whole counter of their own, seemingly a top seller. 

“Why, do mine eyes deceive me or is Bea Hawthorne in the market for some Cupid Crystals?” A voice said from behind. 

The Weasley stood tall, beaming. It was a given that he’d look older. His hair, while still very much ginger, was cropped short and close to his ears. His smile looked worn, his features set. Beatrice was pulled into a hug, her face pressed against the lapel of his dark green twill suit. Through her daze she was able to bring her arms to wrap around him, a grin cracked over her cheeks as she squeezed.

“Wouldn’ta thought you couldn’t brew a love potion.” He laughed, releasing her.

Beatrice fought a blush, eyeing the violently pink array before them. It was evidently a product line catered to teen witches, a variety of glittery shimmery vials and parcels -- all nauseatingly adorable. 

“I _can_ brew a love potion, Weasley!” She gave a half-cocked smile.

“Wouldn’ta thought you’d need to brew a love potion, either!” The redhead shot back, his lips twisting into a grin. 

Her belly bloomed with warmth. Whichever twin this was, he was very much the same as he was eight years ago.

“You’ve really got something special going on here,” Beatrice raved, fiddling with the boxes on the display, “You’ve fit quite a bit of magic in these little packages.”

“That means a lot from you, Hawthorne.” His eyes crinkled as he placed a hand on the small of her back and started to edge them towards the end of the shop.

Tentatively following his lead, they meandered through the gaps in the crowd, “How have you been? How’s George?” 

It was a guess. He just seemed like Fred. Whatever that meant. 

Something in his face flickered. Maybe her guess was wrong and he found it humorous that she tried anyway. Or maybe she was right and he was impressed. She knew he wouldn’t let her know either way. Urging her through a doorway into the back, it was dimmer and quieter. File cabinets spewing papers stood in each corner, invoices and timetables were tacked haphazardly over walls and surfaces. A large round wooden table sat in the middle of the room, covered in half-assembled contraptions and various smatterings of potion ingredients. It was the nitty cipherous underbelly to the exuberant vibrance of the store floor.

“Don’t mind the mess.” Fred pulled his hand from her back and flicked his wrist, gesturing vaguely towards the office. 

Papers zoomed and twirled through the air, tumbling swiftly into folders and envelopes in neat stacks. Crooked posters on the walls righted themselves, cardboard boxes were tucking back onto shelves, stoppers flew into potion bottles. The sharp gusts and clinking and shuffling of flying objects ended as quickly as it started. Left was a relatively tidy, if not cluttered, storeroom much more suitable for human interaction.

“Please, sit.” Fred threw over his shoulder as he turned down a hall off to the side. Two stools pulled themselves out from underneath the wooden table. “Tea?”

“Oh, thank you, but really- I can’t. I can’t stay.” Bea sputtered. 

“Nonsense.” Fred rolled his eyes, returning with a steaming kettle in one hand and two ceramic mugs hooked on the fingers of the other hand.

He cocked his head once more to the stool as he took the opposing seat, “C'mon, Hawthorne. Allow me the pleasure of having you for tea."

She sheepishly moved to sit as she watched Fred prepare the tea. Gesturing his forefinger towards the kitchen, a cream pitcher floated into the office alongside a crystal sugar bowl. Bea tried not to show how impressed she was at his display of wandless magic. Fred and George were always talented wizards, the shop further proved that. 

"Let’s catch ‘ya up to speed, shall we? So, let’s see … we opened a second shop in Hogsmeade a few years ago, working on opening a third in Manchester." Fred dribbled some milk into his mug, "Angelina and I married, it’ll be two years in September."

"Johnson!?" Bea gawked.

"Weasley now." Fred waggled his brow, bringing the tea to his lips.

"Congratulations, Fred! That's brilliant! Do you two live in London?" 

"Reading. Bought a house last summer. How about yourself? What do you do?”

Bea stared down at her mug as she spoke, uneased now that the spotlight was thrown onto her, “I’m just outside Bath, but I work in Cardiff. I … manage correspondence for the Institute of Alchemical Studies.”

“Sounds a riot. They treat you well?” He asked. 

“They do. Good pay.” Bea admitted, “I know it’s not the most exciting job. I’m a glorified typewriter for a load of decrepit alchemists. I just sorta … ended up there.”

“Job’s a job, innit?” He added casually.

Bea thought his expression looked genuine and encouraging. She never liked talking about her life. It made her feel inadequate and lame. If Fred thought her either, he didn’t show it. 

“And you always liked alchemy.” Fred added, politely ignoring her growing blush.

“You remembered that?” Beatrice fought a smile and kept her eyes on the table. 

“Oh, but of course! You were a right swot in school!” teased Fred.

  
  
“I hardly think I could be called a swot just because I actually showed up for my classes.” she rolled her eyes.

“Hey, George and I didn’t skive off that much!” 

Beatrice shot him an exasperated look. 

“Well it didn’t matter much in the end, did it?” Fred laughed.

They sat still for a moment as silence filled the air. He was right. The twins not only pissed away the last months of their education, they _rebelled_ against their education. While his intention wasn’t to devalue Beatrice’s academic dedication at Hogwarts, nor their differing life paths, she felt another jab of self-deprecation. 

Fred looked up from his mug, “Things really went arse over tit by the end though, didn’t they?”

“You mean with how you left school?” Bea asked.

“All of it. How we left school. You and George. Umbridge.” Fred rattled off. 

“Really, how is George?” 

“Mr. Weasley, Mr. Goldling is here.” A female voice called.

Beatrice turned to see a smaller woman poking her head in from the doorway, hair short and blonde. She wore magenta robes and was adorned in lime green jewelry. 

Weasley checked his watch as he tutted, "Bastard said quarter-of. Verity, didn't he say quarter-of?" 

"He said quarter-of. Shall I send him away?" Verity asked. 

Beatrice stood up quickly, jumping to right herself.

"Please, not on my account. I must be going anyway." Beatrice gathered her things swiftly, "Don't let me keep you."

"Sorry. Was good to see you, though." Fred frowned before standing and pulling her into a hug.

"Thank you for the tea." said Beatrice.

"Come back soon, yeah? We'll get dinner." urged Fred.

Fred gave one last smile before heading out, trailing behind his employee.

  
  
 _“Doesn’t he know it’s rude to arrive early!”_ Fred quipped towards Verity. 

Beatrice took a moment to gulp the rest of her tea before leaving the office. She caught a last glance as the door closed behind the redhead. Slowly tottering through the crowd, she inched her way to the front before stepping out onto Diagon Alley. 

Fred was around the corner outside, standing beside a pudgy gentleman. Sparse white hair and blotchy red skin stuffed like a sausage into a pale corduroy suit. He carried a sandy-colored dragonscale briefcase with matching dragonscale belt and boots. Fred shook hands with the older gentleman as they exchanged pleasantries. Catching his eye, Fred winked at Beatrice once before turning back to Mr. Goldling. 

After finishing her errands in London she returned to her flat. That evening she drew a bath for herself and couldn’t help but think of the twins. She hadn't thought of them in years. Not extensively, anyway. She tried not to. It didn’t feel good to think of how she ended her relationship with George. Like a coward. Too afraid of the unknown and uncertain, so she ran to the safety of a structured predetermined path. She left the one person that made her feel safe and desired, that never failed to make her laugh, who made her feel excited to be alive. 

She remembered their seventeenth birthday and how the twins borrowed a charmed tent from Bill, they wanted to be sure McGonogall couldn’t snub the party so they set it up out on the quidditch pitch. Lee Jordan got piss drunk and ran into a support pole and the attic fell in on Stephanie Fawcett and Graham Stebbins while they were having a snog. 

And her and George’s first date in Hogsmeade. They got fish and chips and he made her laugh so hard butterbeer came out her nose and dribbled down her shirt. She was so horrified and flustered that George had charmed his butterbeer to spew like a geyser onto the front of his trousers. _"To share the embarrassment."_ He had said.

Or even that one night in early spring, where she had slept with both Fred and George. Her thighs quivered at the thought. Beatrice had slept with people since then, of course. Had been on dates and had the odd boyfriend here or there. Yet she’d never been able to feel as satiated as she had that evening. Never felt so full, so complete. So overcome with sensation and pleasure. 

The bath water was cold by the time she got out, and her thoughts were wracked with the twins as she made for bed. 

Had George married? Had she been a Hogwarts student? Of course, it wasn't stemmed in jealousy. It couldn't be. It's been too long for that. George was a good bloke. The twins made good company. She missed that.


	3. The Wedding

While she had spent weeks convincing herself it wouldn’t be so awful to go alone, the embarrassment started to crawl in on the day of the wedding. Should the day go according to plan, the feeling would wear off midway through the reception, once she was piss-drunk. Not to mention there wouldn’t be any discomfort about embarrassing herself, since she wouldn’t know any of the other guests. But that wouldn’t help the discomfort over not knowing any other guests. Bea wasn’t sure how to remedy that. 

That morning she woke much too early and had an innocuous breakfast of tea and toast. Seemingly the hours were stretching on and on forever, condemning her to the hell of having to dawdle and stall. She stood in the shower for what she thought to be half an hour, to find it was actually twelve minutes. Her hair and makeup only took twenty-eight minutes, not the two hours it felt.

She was seventeen minutes early when she was fed up with mindlessly twiddling in front of the foyer mirror. Instead of apparating to the property gate as the invitation instructed, Bea decided to apparate a ways south -- preferring to spend a few moments gathering her thoughts with a walk. 

Ottery St. Catchpole was tucked beside a river in Devon. A handful of cobbled buildings and cottages formed a muggle village in the base of the valley. There were no walking paths outside of the village, just rolling green that poured into soft meadows. Towards the north sat a faint pillar against the horizon, presumably the Lovegood house. A soft breeze whipped loose hairs across her cheeks and under her neck as she followed the strange black cylinder. 

It was a good day for a wedding. The sky was an even shade of vast blue, the tepid spring sun played behind a smattering of wispy white clouds. Bea just nearly missed stepping in a rabbit hole before she reached the hill. 

A crooked wooden fence separated the rest of Ottery St. Catchpole from The Lovegood’s property. Flowering trumpet vines crawled through the pickets, bright orange petals burst towards the sky. Massive tufts of white hydrangeas sat on the top rail, oversized burlap ribbon was woven through the gaps, knotting into bows along the posts. Keys were strung with twine and hung from nails in the fence, varying from large brass barrel keys to tarnished silver skeleton keys. Atop the hill, their house sat like a castle tower, the narrow building shot straight up; pennant strings wrapped around the entire house, flags in every color fluttered vibrantly. 

The crack of apparition seemed thunderous as guests appeared in rapid succession at the gate. 

Pulling out her wand, Beatrice cast a quick _Scourgify_ to rid the grass off her shoes. Deciding what to wear was a tremendous task. It was hard to read the formality of the event from the invitation. The parchment had small seeds and petals embedded into the fibers, in addition to being hand-written. It simply read:

_Luna Lovegood and Rolf Scamander invite you to celebrate their wedding_ _  
__3pm on the 21st of March  
_ _Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, England_  
  


On the back was an interesting little hand-drawn map of the village, adorned with inky doodles stars in the margins. 

  
  


While Luna wouldn’t care for black-tie attire, she also knew Luna surely wouldn’t frown upon anyone’s ostentatious dress robes, or lack thereof dress robes entirely for that matter. She settled on a blush colored tea dress, the fabric slinky with a snug formfit, and nude chunky heels. A tidy plait ran around the crown of her head while the rest hung in loose curls. 

The guests climbed in pairs and trios, following the gravel zigzagging path towards the peak. 

Lining the path edge was a variety of wild plants, including wiry gooseberry bushes and crawling daisyroot. Thick squared shrubs bloomed with violet flowers that smelled of black treacle. Tiny white butterflies flitted between overgrown fluxweed stalks. Empty hermit crab shells and painted acorns were scattered artfully among the stepping stones. Floating throughout the garden, small silver bells blew in the wind, filling the air with an array of harmonizing chiming. Wrought iron lanterns were tucked onto the branches of aged crabapple trees, garlands of vines braided with beads and buttons hung from pink dogwood trees in long cascades.

The crest of the hill plateaued, revealing the altar placed before the entrance of the Lovegood house. A row of wooden chairs spiraled around the altar, the coils forming large circular rings. Piles of loose flower heads in all colors, gauzy fabric, enchanted candles and garlands of dried citrus slices were mounted high among the Yew arch. Behind the home, she was able to see the area separated off for the reception. 

It was to the left that she caught a mass of red. A herd of Weasleys and company clamored through the entryway. They were all dressed in formal garden attire, the ladies in floral chiffon or flowy pastel sundresses. The men looked sharp in light colored linen suits. A shorter older woman walked with a portly and quite ruddy gentleman -- who could only be Molly and Arthur Weasley. To the back were three older Weasleys, she could barely make out Percy and assumed the other two were Bill and Charlie though she couldn't be sure. She didn’t recognize their partners but by the way the women carried themselves they appeared to be wives, if not - girlfriends, but certainly not dates. Angelina clasped the elbow of Fred, Angelina in a long silky lilac dress, Fred in a mint seersucker suit. To the back she could spot George. 

His shoulders were slumped casually, hands tucked in his front trouser pockets. As the crowds started to move towards seats he trailed behind, head tipped back as he awed at the garden and all it’s decor. An oval cotton bandage on the left side of his face peeked from under the cheek-length ginger hair. She watched as George leaned over and said something to the couple, then pointed off towards the southern end of the property. It must have been something clever, as Fred’s chest rose and fell with laughter, and Angelina playfully slapped George’s shoulder. 

Beatrice tentatively made for the outer spiral of chairs, watching as the seats filled with witches and wizards of all classes and ages. Underneath each wooden chair was a medium-sized Gurdyroot and a vial of morning dew. A party favor, perhaps. 

A witch in gold dress robes sat behind the altar and began plucking a large ornate harp. The remaining guests scurried to fill the surrounding seats, as the melodic lilt filled the garden. 

At the cue, Rolf walked head-high to the arbor, wearing a dashing suit of moss green. Knotted dittany, baby’s breath, and a deep blue Jobberknoll feather formed his boutonniere. His best man looked older, with bulbous features and shiny blond hair. The processional trailed up the aisle, Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom and Hannah Abbot. The bridesmaids carried bundles of thistle flowers and dirigible plums. They wore nonidentical dresses and suits, assumedly in the style and color of their own choosing. The pairs smiled eagerly as they maneuvered into their places. 

Rolf’s face grew red, his eyes glassy, as Luna and Xenophilius started up the coiling aisle. Her ball gown was made of thick layers of shimmery chiffon from every color of the rainbow, the bodice embroidered with iridescent sequins that sparkled with each step. A delicate silver tiara with glittering unicorn embeds rested on top of her loose blonde tresses. She held a bouquet of fairy foxglove and mallowsweet and wild rhubarb stalks. Reaching the center, Luna and Rolf beamed like their cheeks would crack. The officiant was a very short wizard with a deep brow in dark dress robes, maybe even with Goblin ancestry, he climbed on top of a wooden barrel as Xenophilius stepped inline with the bridal party.

Beatrice felt her eyes start to water as they read their vows. Casting her vision to the side, she dabbed her cheeks with the back of her knuckle. She hadn’t noticed the twins were in direct line of sight across the spiral of chairs. Before Bea could even realize, George’s eyes grew bright and wide with recognition. He jabbed an elbow into Fred sat beside him, who shifted to follow his gaze. Fred looked bewildered at first, before mouthing something to George. The two turned back to Beatrice with a cheeky grin and waved.

  
  
  


\-- --

The ceremony was lovely and left Beatrice teary yet giddy. After Luna and Rolf made down the aisle, now married, the reception in the back garden followed. The feast would take place at a single elongated dining table, almost as long as the tables were at Hogwarts -- at least fifty seats on each side with two beside each other at the head. A chintz tablecloth ran the length, set with mismatched bone china and porcelain. Charmed paper origami hares and eagles and foxes scurried and swooped over centerpieces of spindly Hornbeam branches and mounded wildflowers. 

She had time to grab a glass of champagne from a floating serving tray before she heard her name. Beatrice already knew who would be behind her, yet her stomach flipped nonetheless. She downed the flute quickly before dropping it back onto the tray and turning. The bubbles filled her mouth and left her cheeks warm. 

His long legs were quick to close the distance between them. George looked good. Aged, but reasonably so. Maybe the skin under his eyes looked a little dark, and the creases around his mouth now deeper. But his figure was still long and lean and his eyes still glimmered with familiarity. With hair longer than Fred’s, she wondered if that was now his preferred style or if it had anything to do with the bandage. George knew better than to be self conscious. 

He stood before her and she almost wished he'd gone in for a hug, as Fred had done. 

“Fred told me he had you for tea? I’m sorry I missed out.” 

A smile stretched his face and she couldn’t help but match it. It filled her with a rolling elation that he was pleased to see her. 

“Monday. I was in Diagon Alley. Buying this dress, actually.” She gave a cheeky little curtsy, as to call attention to the outfit. 

He grinned and made a show of eyeing her up and down, “It’s a fine dress. You look radiant.” 

“Thank you. And you, George. You look quite handsome.” said Bea. 

A crisp pale blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves folded into sharp cuffs in the middle of his forearms, tucked into navy trousers, with a thin navy tie. Another tray floated past, this one with glasses of Elf-made wine. George grabbed two. 

“So Fred says you’re in Wales?” He asked, handing a goblet to her.

“Cardiff. But I live outside Bath, actually. I manage correspondence for the Institute of Alchemical Studies.” Beatrice felt like a record player, having already said that this week. 

“I thought you wanted to be a Healer?”

“Well, after Seventh Year I was a research assistant at St. Mungo’s. We developed experimental treatments for the Janus Thickey ward. But it just became too much, really did a number on me mentally.” She sipped her wine, suddenly feeling embarrassed that she was steering the conversation to such a drab place, “Some days we did ingredient property testing where volunteers came in and we fed them probationary potions. You know, before approving them for patients. It reminded me of when you and Fred would pay the little first years to try your pinkeye fancies or whatever.”

“Fainting fancies.” George quipped, “Pinkeye isn’t a bad idea though. And those little first years were facilitating greatness!"

“The shop looks incredible, by the way. Not that it'd matter, but it’s quite extraordinary what you both have done.”

George looked taken aback, “Why wouldn’t it matter?” 

Bea furrowed her brow. They’ve only been talking for mere moments and she’d already gone and stuck her foot in her mouth. She took another drink of wine and looked down at the grass under their feet. 

“Well I’m sure you weren’t holding your breath waiting to hear what your old fling from school had to say. But it’s just impressive, is all. The last I saw you and Fred, you were selling homemade taffy out of your satchels.” Beatrice said, followed by a forced laugh that sounded more like a bark. 

“I don’t just think of you as an old school fling.” George frowned, “Honestly, I was devastated when we broke up. I didn’t even realize at the time because we were so busy trying to get the shop off the ground.” 

Her heart plummeted, she felt her throat tighten, her eyes sting. Shooting her gaze upwards to try to coerce the tears back into her skull. 

“I’m sorry, George.” 

“Oh for heaven’s sake, I’ve really gone and mucked this up, haven’t I? I’m not scolding you, Bea.” He pulled her into a tight hug, brought a hand to rub between her shoulder blades soothingly. 

God, did it feel good to be held by him. She fit into his chest like a glove. And her old nickname sounded so natural, as if he's been saying it for years. Pressing her face into the front of his shirt, she let the warmth of his body envelop hers. Sweet spring air whirled around them, flickered through the grass, the rush of it dulling the cacophony of chatter and cutlery clatter. Bea drew back to look at him, his arms dropped to rest atop her hips. 

“Sorry.” She said, meekly. 

“Stop saying sorry!” He laughed, “You’re very much the same, aren’t you. … Have you come with anyone?” 

“No. Have you?” asked Bea, as they parted. He shook his head.

Bringing a hand up to fix the knot of his tie, smoothening where her head rested, she sniffled and fought a smile. Embroidered into the fabric of the tie were tiny glow bugs. 

“Making the poor girl cry already, eh Georgie?” asked Fred, smoothly appearing at her side from behind.

“His skills with the ladies are just as impeccable as always.” Bea said with a coy grin, the twins laughed and Fred lifted his glass of soul cider.

“Cheers?” Fred raised a brow in question. 

George and Bea brought their glasses into his with a clink, “Cheers!”

“So, who’s Mr. Goldling?” Beatrice asked as the syrupy wine swirled in her belly. 

Fred and George looked wildly at each other.

“Think she’s a spy?” George whispered loudly to Fred. 

“You know, that old bat at Gambol and Japes never forgave us when he had to close his shop.” Fred brought up a hand to shield his mouth in mock discretion. 

"He wouldn't be crass enough to hire a spy to gather intel at a wedding." said George.

Beatrice rolled her eyes but couldn’t help as she let out a laugh.

“Mr. Goldling is a friend of Charlie-” George started.

“Sorta.” Fred interjected.

“Sorta Charlie's friend who will be supplying-” amended George, 

“Maybe.” interrupted Fred.

“Sorta Charlie's friend who may be supplying us with dragon claws.” George persisted.

Beatrice looked over at Fred to see what he’d add, but supposedly he thought that sentence correct, as he said nothing. 

“What the hell are you gonna do with dragon claws?”


	4. The Pink Pond

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, hasn't it? So much for, "having the rest uploaded very soon." 
> 
> I admittedly fell into a bit of a rough spot with my mental health, and then you know, the whole of society collapsed. I live in America, so the societal collapse is still sorta going on - but my inspiration to write has come back! I would like to apologize for the delay, hopefully anyone who has felt disappointed can forgive me. Additionally, I would like to deeply and earnestly thank everyone for such sweet and inspirational comments and messages I have received in my absence. Truly, y'all have no idea how I beamed looking through my inbox and being greeted with such kindness. It warmed my heart in ways I didn't know I needed. 
> 
> Since the last time I worked on this story, (My God -- 8 months ago??) I have had a change in heart with what the ending was to be. So the last two chapters are different than what I had originally imagined, if you're wondering about the change in tags -- that's why. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking around. I will be going through and replying to your comments, bear with me. Once more, I thank you for your feedback, and I am forever appreciative of you sharing your time with my writing.

They made plans for the week following. Dinner at a restaurant the boys enjoyed in Muggle London. After much hesitation and shifty glances, the twins insisted the topic was too sensitive to discuss at the wedding and would rather they meet elsewhere privately. Though, Bea was under the impression they just wanted to see her again. 

She was to make a left after leaving the Leaky Cauldron, the restaurant would just be a block further south, on the corner of Charing Cross Road and Litchfield Street, she couldn’t miss it. 

There was a nip in the air and Beatrice found herself regretting not bringing a coat as she spotted the hanging sign, The Pink Pond. It was strangely intimate, the restaurant quite dim with warm sconces along the walls and wax candles at every table. A waitress brought her to a booth in the back where Fred and George were seated, hunched over and speaking quietly. 

At her presence, the twins stood to greet Bea, Fred side-stepping the table for a chaste hug. George reached out for her hand and kissed her knuckles with a cheeky grin. Fred grabbed the wine bottle from the table and poured her a generous glass as she slid into the rounded bench, sat in the middle. 

“Glad you could join us again.” Fred smiled. 

“How could I not, after all the anticipation you two built up?” Beatrice picked up the menu in front of her. 

“So, we’ve been thinking,” started George.

“It’s actually a little frightening how perfect it is. Your timing.” said Fred.

“Impeccable timing, really.” said George. 

She eyed the two of them over her menu. 

“Perhaps a little backstory. Morton Goldling runs a dragon reserve in Austria. Charlie says it’s a bit of a farce. They’re breeding dragons more for profit than research, but that’s just what Charlie says.” Fred flicked his wrist through the air as if to shrug off Charlie’s opinion on the matter. 

“Goldling contacted us the just past winter. He has a daughter, maybe fourteen or fifteen years old?” Fred looked over to George who nodded, “Ambrosia’s had this ... illness.”

“Nice girl. It’s a shame, really.” George solemnly added.

“Says they’ve been to every Healer worth their wand in Europe before they came to Britain.” said Fred, “It’s like some sort of fever. She doesn’t get it very often, but it makes her unconsolable. She gets unimaginably hot, described it like she’s on the sun.”

“Apparently over Christmas holiday, Ambrosia had been into the shop on a whim and bought a packet of Polar Pleases.” George said.

“They’re these mints that chill your whole body down. Practically to the point of shivering. That was probably the only sale we made that winter, but we can hardly keep ‘em on the shelves during the summer.” explained Fred. 

He paused as the waitress approached the table. Beatrice ordered some sort of ravioli dish, it was the only thing on the menu that was under twenty-five pounds. The server refilled their water glasses before departing, and Fred continued. 

“Anyway, a week later we get an owl from her father. Apparently she had eaten the entire pack of mints during one of her bouts of sickness, and wouldn’t ya’ know it -- it helped quell her fever.”

“Not to be rude, I know you’re both great wizards. But you’re going to tell me your sweets have something the Healers at St. Mungo’s don’t?” Beatrice interrupted. 

“Goldling says she refuses to go to Healers anymore. And I can’t blame her. She’s been pumped full of potions and charmed for as long as she can remember.” Fred shrugged, “Really though, we think he’s tryna’ keep a low profile, his dealings with dragon-keeping are quite frowned upon over here.”

“And the dragon claws?” asked Beatrice.

“Powdered dragon claws are good for raising body temperature. We’re trying to replicate her symptoms so we have a control.” George said. 

Beatrice was impressed. While there was undeniably money passing hands, it was admirable that they’d put in the time and effort to help a little girl who surely shouldn’t have to suffer at the hands of her morally-questionable father and his business practices. 

“What does my timing have to do with this?” She remembered what they had opened the conversation with.

“You’re an alchemist,” said George. 

“I'm not. You need to take on an apprenticeship to be an alchemist. I just work for alchemists.” Beatrice toyed with the stem of her wine glass. A deep red that tasted of oak and spice. 

“Well you were always fond of alchemy. And you know quite a bit of alchemy. Therefore, essentially an alchemist. Anyway,” Fred said, as Bea rolled her eyes. 

“Maybe you could help us. We’ve reached a bit of a dead end to be frank. We’re trying to strengthen the effects of the potion we use in Polar Pleases, but we can’t quite get it to last longer than minutes at a time.” George continued, “We could really use someone with a knack for purification and componentry.” 

“And another test rabbit couldn’t hurt.” slyly mentioned Fred. 

Bea had to fight the grin that threatened to creep over her face. Just like Fred and George paying off the little first years. The sensation of pride slowly welled in her stomach, the idea that her efforts were being recognized for more than just a body to jot notes. 

“Is it dangerous?” She asked. 

Fred and George sat upright, borderline eager. As if they were surprised her first reaction wasn't initial rejection. Beatrice would need just a little more nudging. She was always a sucker for the twins’ propositions. 

“Not at all!” Fred assured, perhaps a hair too quick. 

“Couldn’t be safer.” George insisted. 

As Beatrice looked between the two, dazzled with the confident energy she’d yet to find in any other pair of humans in years. She knew better than to take their words at face value -- yet she was content in placing her trust in them regardless. 

“I’m not particularly familiar with the effects of freezing potions.” said Beatrice. 

“You'll pick it up.” said Fred.

"Or dragon claws." She added.

"The dragon claws come later." George explained.

"You said his dragon-keeping was frowned upon with dragonologists. Are the claws illegal?" Bea asked.

“Define illegal.” George cautioned, a sheepish quality to his tone. 

“Hey now! Goldling says they’re plenty legal!” Fred pointed a straight finger towards George, the quick rebuttal hinting that maybe they’ve had this discussion before.

“All I’m saying is he couldn’t for certain say these claws were harvested in a cruelty-free manner and I want that to be apparent.” George threw his hands up in surrender, throwing a furtive look down to his lap. 

“All _I’m_ saying is nobody throws a fit over if lacewing flies or murtlap tentacles are cruelty-free! Where is the magical beast rights movement for the safety of murtlaps?” demanded Fred. 

“Either way. The claws come later.” repeated George, as if to distract from the sidetracking. 

  
  
  


\-- --

  
  
  
  


Conducting research with Fred and George was one of the most stimulating nights Beatrice had had in months. 

Exactly six days after the dinner at The Pink Pond, she found herself again at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. This time not in the back office, but a room just off of it. If she thought the office was messy, she was practically speechless at the state of the workshop. They insisted they’d tidied before her arrival, but Bea wasn’t entirely convinced. 

They began in the early afternoon. The ingredient list for the magic behind Polar Pleases wasn’t particularly interesting; woolly bear caterpillar eggs, moondew, arctic lichen. The twins were right to be frustrated, against intense heat the potion’s effects were nullified after a few minutes. But the testing procedure was simple. A warming charm was used on potted daisies, before dousing the plants with their experimental potions and noting how long before it wore off. Beatrice started by isolating specific qualities, then trying different ratios of ingredients, changing addition sequences, alternate preparation methods. They toyed with longer brew times which had some success in longevity, but reduced the intensity overall. Adding leaping toadstool or castor oil helped but left such a rancid taste and smell it was arguably inedible. Fred and George made for lovely lab mates. Never undermining Bea’s contributions or doubting her propensity for experimentation.

It was just after eight when a horrifying growl emerged from Beatrice’s stomach. She hadn’t even noticed she was hungry. Nor had she noticed the sun had set, or that her fingers were frigidly stiff after poking and prodding the various cold-producing ingredients. George was the first to straighten up from his hunched posture over the lab table and throw his arms up in a big lazy stretch. The bottom of his jumper raised with his movement, crawling up over his midriff to reveal the brief strip of skin. 

Beatrice mentally scolded herself, dragging her eyes back to the cauldron in front of her. 

“We’ve been at it all day. Definitely deserving of a quits, yeah?” Fred mumbled through a yawn.

George brought his hands to his face where he exhaled hot breath into his closed palms. Seemingly also suffering from some frozen appendages. 

“You were supposed to owl Angelina.” George suddenly remembered. 

Fred brought a hand up to smack his forehead, “I'm a dead man.”

“Poor Angelina, slaving over a hot dinner yet again for her forgetful husband.” George laughed. 

“Slaving? I’m the one cooking dinner tonight!” Fred barked, “She just … doesn’t like being kept waiting.”

“Poor Angelina! Starving at home while she waits, yet again, for her forgetful husband!” chided George.

“Leave him be!" Beatrice playfully swatted at George's shoulder, "Go home Fred, we’ll clean up.”

“Sorry. Normally I'd put on the airs of insisting to stay and help a little more. You know, to be polite. But Angelina really will have a fit.” Fred stood to grab his coat from a hook along the wall.

“I’ll see Beatrice out, Freddie, don’t you worry. We got quite a bit done today, we should all be very pleased.” George remarked.

“Thank you for your help, Hawthorne! Let Georgie know when you’re coming again!” Fred shouted over his shoulder before ducking out. 

She heard the clear pronunciation of what she assumed be his address in Reading, then the roar of flames as the Floo whisked him away. Bea brought a hand to rub at the back of her neck, stiff from hours of concentration. George was penning down some final notes in a journal.

“I hope you know I’m incapable of pretending that I didn’t hear your _borderline appalling_ stomach growl.” George casually remarked, closing the book with a crisp finality.

"I guess potion work makes me hungry." Bea shrugged. 

George moved to snuff the flame in the burner, then carried the cauldron to the sink, dumping the remnants of their last disappointing potion. Too much ground alabaster, made for a finicky boiling point. He turned on the tap, letting water rinse out the burnt sludge along the edges.

"Are you actually pleased with what we got done today?" Beatrice mused. 

"Why wouldn't we be? Your perspective has been beyond refreshing, you've suggested things Fred and I never even considered." replied George. 

"We didn't get to try it alongside the dragon claws." 

George turned to look at the dejected Ravenclaw. She drummed her fingers idly along the sides of one of the terracotta flower pots, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. 

"Fred and I have found that a strong warming charm is decent enough to start. As long as the potion can counter the effects of the heat at all, we have a rough idea of it's potency. I'd rather some flowers keel over and die before ourselves." said George. 

"I just can't imagine daisies and people have much in common. I think trying the dragon claws would be beneficial to see what you're trying to combat. In terms of sensation. "

George brought his arms to cross in front of his torso.

"No. Not yet, anyway." 

"Why not? You said they were perfectly safe!" huffed Beatrice. 

"And that's still correct. They are perfectly safe. When Fred or I take them." George turned back to the sink once more, turning off the tap and dumping the cauldron before carrying it across the room to place on a high shelf. 

"What do you and Fred have that I don't?" Beatrice stood quickly, throwing her chair back in admonishment. 

"About a whole head in height."

Beatrice stamped her foot in dramatic frustration, "George, come now! I think it would help hone in on what the potion is trying to accomplish!" 

The Weasley started gathering dirty utensils, chucking them lazily into the sink. He didn't meet her stern gaze before sighing, loud and long.

"Fine." 

"Fine?" Beatrice gasped. She really thought she'd have to whine a little more, she was definitely getting off easy.

"Fine!" George repeated, "After dinner." 

Beatrice sputtered, "We're having dinner?" 

At that, another growl echoed from her stomach. An unfortunate blush crept across her cheeks. 

"So it seems."


End file.
